Rite of Passage
by LegalBlonde
Summary: A very young Sark faces a turning point. Written for the March CM challenge. 1/1.


Title: "Rite of Passage"

Author: LegalBlonde

Rating: PG-13

Spoilers: None really, pre-Alias

Category: Vignette

Summary: A very young Sark faces his own rite of passage.

AN:  This is my entry in the Cover Me March challenge.  Head over there and check out the terrific work by terrific authors.

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He sits in the tall, straight chair, stretching his legs out in front of him.  The cuffs of his navy trousers ride up above his ankles, revealing the tops of his black socks and a puff of newly-grown fuzz on his pale shins.  He pulls his legs back and shifts, tugging down on his pants.  He fights the urge to glance around for cameras; someone must be watching.  Someone is always watching.  

The pattern of gold light from beneath the door shifts, but he hears no footsteps.  The knob jerks, twists, and the dark door swings open.  A woman enters, dressed in a severe black suit.  Her eyes flick down, then up, taking in his spindly form with one look.  He lifts his chin, but does not fidget.  Her lips flick up in the pale imitation of a smile.  

"Well, Master  --" she flips open the emerald-colored file in her hands, "--Sark.  What has piqued your interest in the Academy?"

"It's Mister."

She cocks a penciled-in eyebrow, and glances at the file again.

"You were -- yes, thirteen.  Today, I see."

"Yes, ma'am."

"And what is it that interests you about the Academy?"

"Its focus on academic achievement and the opportunities for advancement."

She extracts a pen from some unseen pocket and makes a tick mark in the folder.  

"You're rather young to be interested in such opportunities."

"I believed that was the point of advancement -- to achieve it as quickly as possible."

She makes another tick mark and smoothes an invisible strand into her steel-grey chignon.  

"And you believe you would excel here?  Advance quickly?"

"I've never done otherwise."

She glances at the folder, cocking another painted-on brow.  

"So I see.  Mister Sark, are you prepared for the sacrifices required by the Academy?"

"I have nothing to give up."

"What about your parents?  Schoolmates?"

"I have no family.  And no schoolmates I care to remember.  But you already know that, or I wouldn't be here."

Her lips flick up again, her cheeks creasing in sharp smile-lines.  "You speak presumptuously."

"Do I speak incorrectly?"

"No."  She flips the file shut.  "Mister Sark, what concerns me most is the lack of any indication of background.  We are interested only in those completely loyal to our mission.  Without personal history, family ties, or the guidance of friends, one can hardly say your patriotism is assured."

"My loyalty is assured -- to the Academy, to its work.  It would provide me with opportunities not available elsewhere, and such generosity would not go overlooked."

"You speak as if you had something to give us."

"I do.  May I?"  He indicates the battered leather briefcase beside his chair.  The woman nods.  

He lifts it to his lap, opening it slowly.  He gingerly lifts a page from inside, sepia with age and worn soft at the edges.  He places the page atop the battered case, its faint diagram clear under the florescent lights.  He hears the catch in her breath, sees the way her hand jerks toward it, just by a millimetre, before lying still in her lap.  He smiles.

"I would, of course, provide the Academy with any similar artifacts in my possession."

Her green eyes glitter.  

"But I will require assistance.  I will need access to all such artifacts in the Academy's possession."

Her green eyes darken, but do not waver from the yellowed page.

"I will see what I can arrange."

"Will you see now?"

Her head jerks upward, and she meets his eyes.  He continues.

"Before I accept any offer, I will require assurance I can be part of the relevant operation.  And more importantly," he pauses, drawing a breath.  "I will require proof that the companion to this page is in the Academy's possession."

The drawn-on eyebrows plunge downward.  

"Do not presume you can give orders to the Academy.  Even if we choose to admit you, you will be under the authority of your instructors.  Not the other way around."

"I am prepared to accept the Academy's training and to adapt to its structure.  But I require proof my sacrifices will be worthwhile."

The penciled brows plunge again, then relax.  "I can provide you with photographic evidence of the companion."

"I have a photograph.  I want to see the artifact."

"You are not in any position to make such demands."

"Very well."  He slides the aged sheet back on to his palm, lifting the top of his case.  He places it gingerly inside, then snaps the case shut, clicking the locks for good measure.  He rises from his seat, turning on his heel.

"Stop!  You have not been dismissed."

He turns around with a cool glare.  She says nothing, but rises from her chair and stalks back out the heavy door.  Ten minutes go by, and she does not return.  Fifteen.  He does not move for the door, does not return to the chair.  He stands with the battered case in hand, occasionally shifting its weight.  

Seventeen minutes later, the gold light beneath the door changes once again.  He hears rapid footsteps just before the knob jerks and turns, the heavy door swinging open once again.  Several strands of hair have pulled loose from the chignon, and her left eyebrow is smudged upward a bit.  She carries a steel case, handcuffed to her lean wrist.  She does not speak as the door swings shut; it thuds loudly as she crosses to a narrow table beneath the window.  She slams the oversized case down, glaring over her shoulder.  

"Your viewing of this object will constitute an unconditional acceptance of admission to the Academy, and you will bind yourself to stay here for the requisite six years.  Your training will begin today, and you may not leave the grounds without supervision.  Am I understood?"

He smiles.  "Perfectly."

"Alright, then."  He crosses to the table as she flips through a sequence of complicated combination locks.  His eyes follow every move, recording every numeral, every step.  

The last lock releases with a click and a hiss of air escapes the silver case.  She glances at him, looking for approval.  He inclines his head just a bit, and she turns back to the case.  Their eyes fix on it as she slowly raises the lid, revealing a nearly identical sepia page, worn soft at the edges.  He does not lean in to study it, but rather lifts his own case to the table.  His hand trembles just a bit as he flips through the simple combination lock, flicking open the latches and lifting the lid.  Her green eyes widen at the sight of two nearly identical pages, side by side.  The catch in her breath is more pronounced, the trembling of her hands more apparent.  His lips curl as he motions toward the page.

"Go ahead."

Her plum-painted lips part in a leering grin, her green eyes wide.  She carefully lifts the delicate page, placing it in the broad case.  It fits perfectly into the spot cut for it, the ragged left edge matching perfectly with its mate.  Her eyes widen further, her gaze so intent on the page that she does not notice the motions of her companion.  

He lifts the false bottom from his case and extracts the gleaming revolver.  She does not notice until his left hand snakes out, slamming the silver case shut.  She lets out a half-formed grunt as she turns, right into the barrel of the revolver.  The cool metal bumps her broad forehead.  

His hand squeezes the trigger, the motion an uneven twitch.  The gun flies back, almost slipping from his hand; he was not prepared for the recoil.  

She grunts again as she falls back, arms flailing pitifully.  She almost jerks the silver case off the desk; he slams his hand on top of it before it can fall to the floor.  She crumples, one hand dangling in the air, still handcuffed to the case.  He gulps, gasping in air, heart pounding as it never has before, eyes blurred.  His forehead glistens, his stomach churns.  

Keeping one hand on the silver case, he digs roughly in the pocket of his ill-fitting suit.  He extracts a slender metal device, and stills his hand long enough to insert it into the handcuff lock.  It beeps, signaling its success, and the handcuff flips open as her hand flops to the floor.  The arm keeps twitching, the watch on her wrist beating a staccato pattern on the polished wood floor.  He jumps at the sound; it seems louder even than the pistol, with its silenced shot.  He watches the hand, and his gaze travels up the arm, past the shoulder, and up the oddly-angled neck.  He sees the gaping mouth, the smudged brows, the wide eyes lolling sightless to one side.  He sees the round red opening, too small for the damage it has caused.  He follows the dark smear across the floor, up the baseboard, and his eyes rest on the perfect pattern spattered in crimson and grey on the cream-colored wall.  His stomach clenches once more and he turns back to the silver case.  Someone is watching, and that someone will be here soon.  He places the revolver back in its battered case, slamming it shut and leaving the false bottom behind.  He fastens the still-warm cuff around his own wrist.  Stepping to one side, he grabs the case and swings it back as far as it will go, bringing it against the window with all his force.  He is rewarded by a deafening shatter and the cool splash of falling rain.  He reaches for the other case with one hand as he smashes out the remainder of the window.  

The golden light under the far door shifts, and he can hear heavy footsteps as he scrambles across the table and wriggles through the narrow opening, just in time.  His shoulder squishes into the soft mud, and he rolls twice before pulling himself to his feet, sprinting across the narrow lawn.  He hears shouts and speeds up, running made awkward by two heavy cases.  He leaps a low hedge and slams onto the ground beyond, one trouser leg caught on a sharp branch.  He winces and pulls his leg free, groping with one hand for the battered case he dropped.  As he lifts his eyes from the soft ground, he meets a pair of brown ones.  She smiles and offers a hand.  He passes her the battered case and pushes himself off the ground.  

"Stay low.  Crawl along the bushes to the curb; the car it waiting there."  He nods and follows her lead; moments later they crawl into the warm safety of a waiting sedan.  She pulls the door shut and takes a seat opposite him, her head leaning back against the opaque partition.  The car pulls slowly away from the curb, merging smoothly with the leisurely weekday traffic.  Rain splatters on the dark-tinted windows.  She smiles again, fingering the binoculars that hang from her neck.  

"You performed an excellent operation."

He tries to contain his smile, but does not succeed.  His grin breaks wide, revealing white teeth and the slightest hint of a dimple.  But the smile snaps back, and he glances down at the case still cuffed to his wrist.  

"Would you like to take it off?"

"No, it's alright.  I'll hold on to it until we arrive at our destination."

"Does your stomach bother you?"

He looks up in surprise.  She is rarely this solicitous, never this warm.

"No, why?"

"It usually does, after the first time.  Sometimes after the twelfth time."  She looks past him, out the back window.  "You could have left the other briefcase, you know.  We'll have to go over that -- what you can and can't leave at a scene."  

His eyes follow the contours of the battered case, resting on a monogram near the top.

"What does that stand for -- JDB?"

She pulls the case onto the seat beside her, laying it flat to hide the initials.  

"It belonged to my husband."

"I didn't know you were married."

"I'm not, anymore."  She fastens a cool gaze on him.  "Let's not discuss that.  We have to plan a celebration."  She graces him with a rare, warm smile.  "What would you like to do tonight?  A young man should do something special for his thirteenth birthday."


End file.
